


Birds of a Feather Burn Together

by funeralfiona



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 04:24:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12903993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funeralfiona/pseuds/funeralfiona
Summary: A collection of Roth Frye drabbles.





	1. Rule Number One: Learn how to make blood stains less obvious

      There was a rule, per Evie Frye, that Maxwell Roth was never to board the train. Not that the proclamation could ever stop him. One did not rule over a city-wide gang of parasitic nature without knowing your competitions stink as well as your own. Securely tattooed into his skull, along with other secrets, was the route of Bertha. Her stops, the times of day, who was on it and how often she ran was all mapped out with mathematically precision. He could board at any time he pleased and he told Jacob this with boisterous humor. But, Maxwell added, he did consider himself a gentlemen still and simply waited for Jacob’s generous invitation. It would not come, Jacob was certain of that. The train was too compact for privacy and disgustingly contaminated by the blossoming intimacy of his sister and Henry.

No, the Alhambra suited them both perfectly. The grandness of it offered itself as a wonderful play space for the pair with many delicately swinging walkways for which Jacob could sneak up upon his partner. The encounters and shadowing were always met with wide arms and wine bottles as Blighters and stage hands sulked behind costume racks and set tables. Jacob could appreciated how Maxwell commanded his territory and Maxwell appreciated Jacob’s presence. The older man did have his own rule: no Rooks around the theater, of course. Jacob responded with four on each corner. A move that put a suggestive shine in Maxwell’s smiling eye. Jacob awkwardly avoided it with a dip into his ale or glance at the caged Rook that swung above them.

And so they danced this way back and forth as they frequented fight clubs for high stakes and lots of alcohol. On one such nameless occasion between matches and swipes at sweat Maxwell remarked at the beauty of Jacob’s brutish disposition and the young man returned to the ring feeling invigoratingly virile. Teeth and feet flew through the dust and heat with violence that made the announcers voice falter. Onlookers stomped and smacked cups with booming acceptance as the last man stepped forth. A strongly built Blighter with beastly shoulders, gnarled face, and a reputation for being greatly offended by Jacob’s princely self-insertion at Roth’s side. The bigman was embarrassingly slow but punching him was like trying to assassinate a stack of sand bags. The more Jacob shuffled and hit the less confident in stamina he became as he dipped away from two swinging fists. When the blow was finally struck he rolled three times across the ring, ending face down, resisting the blacking edges in his eyes and spitting dirt. Sand scattered over his boots as the brute snatched him by the neck and rose him up like a yapping mongrel. Kicking and rearing, legs goat-like and stupid hit their target square in the beady eyes. The beast roared as Jacob hit the dirt ready and made foul work of tearing the Blighter’s leg bones and tendons right from under him. The brute went down hard and loud but did not get back up. Pride and a hungry glint light up Maxwell’s face as they took home the whole pot and a complimentary bottle of booze that smelled like boot polish. The pair passed it between them the whole way home as Jacob haphazardly redressed himself atop a rocking carriage.

At the theater the companionship continued with complaints at the state of things and mutual agreement at their fulfilling partnership, sherry and compliments came next, avoided with the eyes. Jacob did his best to mist away the situation with drink or ignore the sensation of Roth so close to his ear. The sideways glances and sheepish avoidance came off as unintentionally coquettish and a bath or bed was offered. With a drunkenly confident smile Jacob confessed that he did indeed feel filthy, it was not a lie in any sense. Maxwell was all too happy to remedy his affliction.

_Follow me, my dear._

Jacob swallowed the last swig of his cup as he stood. The invitation was innocent in its immediate context but the suggestion was heavy in the words. He wobbled on liquored legs, swaying against the older man as he was guided to a private washroom. A bath was already made and he didn’t both to ask who or when. Lewis was on standby and his presence was enough of an answer. Jacob tittered in place, eyes doe-like and curious, as his gun was taken and belt removed. Lewis held them to himself with eyes to the floor. Was it necessary for him to be here for this? Maxwell met the warm dark of Jacob’s eyes as he helped himself to vest buttons, taking it slow, then working the shirt just beneath. Black gloves parted the fabric and gently stroked the skin, thick with grim and sweat, beneath. Jacob twitched at the sensation, pupils twisted and breath hitched. The reaction was something he was too inexperienced and sloshed to currently decode. Maxwell mistook it for eagerness and consent and let his hand rake over the rough hairs of Jacob’s chest to the softness of his belly. One hand snaked around the back of his waist and dipped into the band of his trousers.

The pop and bang of a gun split the tension and Jacob’s heart skipped painfully. As they breathed heavy in shocked all eyes went to Jacob’s pistol laying innocently on the washroom floor. Lewis stared down at it in perpetual sorrow, prepared for the worst. The low and harsh tone of Maxwell’s voice made Lewis tremble and before a fist could be thrown the door rattled with alerted Blighters. Emergency and recklessness raged through their shouts as they ask after the gunshot. Exasperated and growling with insults Maxwell exited the washroom, shaking the walls with his commands.

Open-mouthed and dazed Jacob looked to Lewis and he looked back. The man’s face held the same somber expression as always but the eyes seemed more focused, more present. Even through his stupor Jacob was confident there had been no accident. Either by jealously or pity Lewis had saved him from uncharted territory only alcohol made him brave enough to explore. In a decision of self-preservation the young man gathered his things and made an escape by the washroom window. When Maxwell returned to find the washroom empty and window wide he laughed and commented to Lewis the coy nature of his darling before brutally striking the manservant to the floor.


	2. Rule Number Two: Assert yourself despite the insecurity

A gentle drizzle had begun and had his body not been a light with stinging bruises and every nerve burning then Jacob might of found the wash soothing. He wiped at his numb nostrils, smearing blood across his bandaged hand and cracked lips. Muddy with dirty ale, his vision was floating across the dim nightscape like a ruined painting. He wobbled in his seat dangerously and Roth steadied him with a strong grip at the shoulder.Moments before, with the Blighter lord at the reins, each lean of the cab threatened to send Jacob tumbling into the cobblestones. A game both of them found increasingly amusing with each rough jerk and bruising collision of bodies.

Drunken stamina spent, they had stopped for a rest in the shadow of an alley, the echo of heaving horses and shifting hooves ricocheted around them as they leaned together. Rubbing blindly as his chest, Jacob found his words again through breathless laughter.

“I seem to of lost my shirt.” He stared off at the nothingness of the dark walls, his eyes wildly searching for focus.

Roth’s laugh was slow with liquor.

“Its unfortunate you are such a pitiful loser, they very nearly got the rest.” His eyes trailed down to his partners trousers and their unwanted presence.

“They got my fist in their throats!” Jacob tried to puff up with boastful aggression and found himself toppling forward. Roth snatched him back upwards.

“And they got you in the snout.” Gloves roughly pinched at the boys jaw as he was turned to face his counterpart.

Jacob grinned with pride and Roth could not help but grin back. He gleamed at the blood pooled in the crevices of the young man’s teeth, the dark play of his eyes, and petite scars across his features. Roth wanted nothing more than to pull the boy down into the carriage. He could and the boy would not resist, let alone remember it, but what was the fun in that? At the very least he wanted to kiss that filthy mouth; blood, snot, rain and all. But Roth let go and Jacob shivered 

“Feeling a chill, darling?” The older man inquired with a gentle touch to the young man’s shoulder.

“I’m fine.” Jacob wiped at his nose again and the drying well of blood smeared again. He wobbled. The older man took up the reins again and slapped the horses into action.

“Of course.”

The horses lurched them forward at a brisk pace and Jacob toppled sideways into Roth. He remained there leaning into the older man in a lazy slump the whole trek back to the theater. The trip felt like eons while simultaneously seeming like seconds. When they arrived Lewis caught Jacob as he crashed down, only to receive a rough shove for his assistance. The aid kept his composure and politely saw to the horses. Roth thanked the ever loyal Lewis but smiled at Jacobs hostility. He watched the young assassin traverse the steps like a baby goat then crumble onto a prop couch once inside. His eyelids dropped instantly and he gave a relaxed sigh. Roth poured himself a glass of wine then circle around the couch to hover over the boys head.

“Why such cruelty towards my dear Lewis?” He took a large mouthful of wine and betrayed no disapproval.

Jacob’s words slurred through the downward spiral as he got them out.

“He puts me off.”

“Is that all?” The mob tycoon inquired with a sly grin.

Jacob, unable to comprehend the a gesture, closed his eyes and grunted in response.

“So childish.” Roth mumbled with warm fondness and amusement.

Jacob drifted in and out of consciousness from a flatter and softer surface, an ungloved hand searching across his naked upper body and listed down his hips and thighs. His entire right side was heated with a presence pressed up against him and soft words warmed his ear. As the haze faded he awoke in the full light of late morning still half dressed and dry mouthed. The door opened on queue and Lewis stepped in as if he had vigil over the keyhole. He stayed back near the door with his hands neatly at his sides. His dead stare looked over Jacob entirely and into another world.

“I was asked to offer you a bath when you awoke.”

Jacob stared back through the dull thick ache of his hangover.

"I’m fine.” He mustered passed sore lips.

“Of course” Lewis exited in a curt manner, leaving the door ajar.


	3. Rule Number Three: Breathing through the Pain is Important

Jacob felt as if he had woken from a fever dream. There was things he hadn’t been told, hadn’t been explained. In the afterglow he felt swollen and tender in so many places. A sensation of raw aching heat ringed his entrance as a thick liquid warmth dripped from inside. He was not inexperienced in lovemaking but he had yet to feel tremors like this as lay on his side, mouth parted and eyes closed. His muscles twitched and shook him as he moaned and sighed softly. The very core of him felt weak and useless, unwound but relieved. He shivered this way for many minutes, heart violent in his chest, as they both just breathed. The vulnerability was morbidly unsettling as he focused on the blank of his mind, burn of his limbs and soul-wrenching thirst.

The mattress tilted as his beau began his recovery, standing carefully on tired legs and a soft grunt. The rushing ocean that pounded in Jacob’s ears had begun to recede and they pricked at the clean sound water splashing against porcelain. Moving slowly and gently, a hand ran a damp cloth across his tender body as a low voice spoke sweeter than it ever had.

“Darling,” It crooned at him.

Jacob’s rolled to his back like a slow moving wave and met the eyes of his lover with lethargic grace. He must have been the picture of post-coitus serenity because Maxwell smiled. He smiled back, eyelids heavy. His heart was settling to a rhythmic purr.

“Darling,” His lover repeated, seeming suddenly breathless. “You are beautiful.” A giggle thumped at Jacob’s chest.

“Is my hair a mess?” His voice sounded deep and thick.

“It is.” Maxwell regarded it fondly. “As well as your mouth, your eyes, and everything else.”

He listed them like the fine artistic points of a sculpture. Jacob licked his dry, raw lips in response. They tasted metallic with a hint of salt. Maxwell grinned down at him and came in for a long kiss, provoking a weak moan from the young assassin. When Maxwell pulled away he remained close.

“I suppose there is no use in asking if you enjoyed yourself.” His voice was an intimate whisper.

Coyly Jacob raised his tired arms and rested them above his head, his bedroom eyes gleaming up at Maxwell playfully as he smirked.

“Am I that ravished looking?”

The older man grinned again and triumphantly ran his eyes over his handy work, breathless and lustful.

“You aren’t exactly running out the boudoir, darling.”

It was Jacob’s turn to grin, a rare flush of red pinking his ears.

“I don’t believe I could even if I tried.”

Maxwell couldn’t take the timid sight of his lover then and leaned in eagerly for another, more possessing kiss. One hand took hold of Jacob’s wrists and held them in a firm grip at their resting place above his head. They tested the waters of a second rendezvous with nips at his neck and slow kisses. The arousal came easy like the returning tides and Jacob let himself be swept into the undertow. Head back and eyes closed, mouth parted with quick even breathes, they began again where they left off.


	4. Rule Number Four: Birds of Feather Burn together But as a Rule Ravens are Solitary

When Roth spoke, he listened, then agreed. For the first time he had felt compelled to sacrifice his time for another other than family. He did not offer an alternative or elaborate upon the schemes his subversive ally conjured up. The predatory way his eyes locked, the sweep of his arms, and youthful energy made the plots sound like fairy tale mischief - if the fairy was on arsenic. Playtime for the anarchists that didn’t play around. And, of course, there was always the ale that flowed so freely between them. There was always something between them. Drinks, tables, tortoiseshell buttons…

It was beginning to occur to Jacob that Roth was very keen on small intimacy’s. These moments hid in the closing of space between laughs and sinister mischief, the claps to the upper arm, fingers touching at the clinking of drinks and lingering pauses as passionate eyes met curious ones. _Dear, dearest, darling…_ If judged harshly he’d say Roth was a valuable ally, if asked casually he’d say he liked anyone that liked him back, if asked honestly he would change the subject with a lazy dismissal. He was not honest with himself, let alone anyone else.

Jacob crawled across the pubs. Paraded with the Rooks in ruthless bands of green, sampling vapid girls that tossed his hair and touched his legs. They expressed suggestion that he hardly saw to the end, if at all.

Roth suggested nothing as he pinched Jacob’s face to examine two trickles of blood slipping from his nostrils and down into his teeth. Their skin never touched but the gloves felt warm. Roth grinned delightfully at the aftermath of violence and let go. Jacob wasn’t sure what it was about the gesture that gave him such a charge but he was sure it lay somewhere in Roth’s casual ability to assume control.

He had many moments similar as he watched Roth move away from him and on to an errand or task Jacob was not to be privy. A brief lock of the eyes and a carefree wave would see him off. Obedient and wistful, Jacob would watch with an itching desire to follow and too much pride to ask after him. But he did not dwell on it. It was too dangerous to who he thought he was and so it was dismissed as noise of the mind, a dreamy stream of consciousness he could not contain.

Over the harsh sounds of Roth’s death rattles the question of ‘why’ was understated and misspoken as the heat squeezed ash into Jacobs words. Despite this, it was understood very well what was meant, but the answer would never suffice. Why not? He would mull over it with misdirected rage aimed at the faces of many for years to come.


End file.
